


Blocked Trust Leads to Blighted Dreams

by tosca1390



Series: At the Turn of the Tide [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though the Director never says so, Ziva knows Somalia is a suicide mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blocked Trust Leads to Blighted Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Post-S6 canon divergence.

Though the Director never says so, Ziva knows Somalia is a suicide mission. 

“It was Michael’s mission, and you will complete it,” he says to her in the car as they drive away from the airstrip. 

The A/C is on full-blast, and it is too cold for her; goosebumps prickle her skin. Her cheek burns still from Gibbs’ goodbye; she wants to blame sunburn, but knows it is guilt. “Yes, Director.”

“Your team is already assembled. You will grab your gear and head out as soon as we return to the city,” he says placidly, eyes fixed out the shaded window. 

The cargo plane roars behind them; she thinks of Tony on the plane, staring at her empty seat. He had watched her throughout the entire ride over to Israel; she’d never given him a glance. Would he still stare now?

“You made the correct choice, Ziva. I am glad to see your loyalties remain with those who love you.”

She nods, and says nothing else during the drive, an ulcer of betrayal eating away at her insides. She misses Abby and McGee already; if she had known she would not be back—

But she _had_ known, somewhere inside, that she would not return to Washington. And she of all people knows the ease of a non-goodbye. Easy for her, at least.

It takes less than a half-hour to be ready; her father kisses her cheek in the lobby, eyes dark with something like pride. “ _Shalom_ , Ziva. Your country is proud.”

She wants to scream and curse and shake him; she wants him to answer for spying on her three years ago, for not letting her be, for sending her to a certain death in a wasteland—

But she is a good agent. She does nothing but nod and turn, walking out the door and into the harsh Tel Aviv sun. 

*

A different airstrip, a different plane, a different team; still, Ziva cannot escape the ache in her stomach, the emptiness slowing her steps. She is not up to her own standards, and the only one she can blame is six thousand miles away, most likely clearing out her desk himself and burning the contents out of spite, perhaps eating ham and pork loin right off of the desktop. Tony is good at keeping grudges. 

She can see it in the eyes of those who joined her, that specific sense of death; the knowledge that they are betraying the Jewish sanctity of life as they gather their guns and gear from the bunker on the edge of the Negev. They don’t speak to her, but she doesn’t mind; she is not in the mood for talking, and she doesn’t know these agents anyway. 

Besides, as she has bitterly learned, getting to know people only leads to an empty gnaw inside once they’ve gone.

As she grabs a black duffel, she can almost hear Gibbs in the back of her head, telling her to gas the truck, McGee asking an inane question just because, feel Tony’s hand graze the small of her back in the elevator, on _accident_ , of course—

But that was neither here nor there, anymore. 

*

Ziva comes to in a dusty, sun-spotted cell. But for the bump on her head and the chafing from the ropes on her wrists, she is unharmed. 

That, of course, will change soon. She knows this much. 

She tries to get out of her bindings, as her training instructs, but they tied the rope well. Her neck aches as she cranes her head around, trying to get some sort of sense of _where_ she is. She cannot hear any other people in the surroundings, but perhaps they are already dead. 

If McGee could hear her thoughts now, he’d be wide-eyed, trying to figure out how she can be so clinical. It is easier this way, to be open and logical to the surroundings, not giving yourself any room for false hope. It is why, when she watched Tony’s Mustang blow up in the middle of a busy street on a bright spring morning, she leapt to the logical conclusion of death, as deeply as it hurt.

Her main captor, who she can identify as the leader of the cell from the intelligence she’d looked over, comes in after a while. He is deeply tan and handsome, black stubble across his jaw and a white, rakish grin. He reminds her of Ari; bile rises in her throat as he comes closer.

“Ziva David,” he says, voice low and throaty.

“Present,” she snaps mockingly before she can stop herself. She cannot help it; too much time around Tony, Gibbs would say—and that thought causes her more pain than the slap across her mouth that comes with her insolence. 

“I see the influence America has had on you,” he says coolly as she licks her lips, tasting blood and sweat. “It will not help you.”

She looks straight ahead, hands relaxed on the arms on the chair she’s bound to. His fingers alight on her hair; he pulls it from the tight ponytail, letting it fall smooth and heavy over her shoulders. “You look like your brother. Same eyes,” he says as he circles her.

Stomach turning, she grits her teeth. This is how they knew to grab her, out of all of them: Ari. Even after four years, he still haunts her every step. 

“He was in my training camp, you know,” the man continues, getting to a squat in front of her, forcing her to meet his eyes. “He spoke of you much, but he did not tell me how beautiful you were.”

Dust floats between them, reflecting hot African sun into the air. She says nothing, throat closing, a squeezing that echoes all the way down in her chest. 

“He also did not say you were with NCIS. That makes you all the more interesting.”

She blinks, feeling her pulse beat harder in her throat. Not for the first time, she is thankful Ari did not live to exploit her position. “I do not see why,” she says finally; her voice is rough. 

He smiles unkindly, tapping her cheek. “Think of things you’d like to talk about, Ziva. We have all the time in the world. No one is looking for you.”

Those words hang in the air as he leaves; the door clatters behind him. She allows herself a soft gasp, pretending that the burning behind her eyes is from sand, and not from seldom-felt tears.

*

He tells her his name as his shorter, skinner companion slaps the left side of her face with a rusty loop of chains. It leaves a ringing in her ears; her brain feels as if it’s floating in empty space. It is nighttime, and the room is freezing; she shivers as much from the cold as from the abuse. 

“My name is Akil. It means ‘wise’.”

She coughs as the slaps halt; the skin is tight and throbbing around her left eye. “An unfortunate choice,” she mutters. 

Akil smirks and grasps her by the neck, his fingers closing on her pulse. Her vision blurs. “I am trying to break the ice, Ziva. It will make this much easier for us all.”

Shutting her eyes, she says nothing, chest rising quickly with shallow breaths. Sweat runs a cold, damp trail down the groove of her spine.

“What of the names of your team?”

“I did not know them,” she says, voice strained and thin with lack of air.

He releases her throat and wipes his hand on his pants as she opens her eyes and gasps, air pushing against her aching sides. “Not your Mossad team. NCIS.”

Pursing her lips, she watches as Akil circles her. “I am not stupid. You already know,” she retorts with a wheeze.

His companion looks on in silence, hate gleaming in his black eyes; Akil’s face shows nothing except the barest of smirks, much like Ari’s standard expression. Looking at him is like being thrust four years in the past; it aches deeply. 

“You will tell me what I want eventually.”

At that, she cannot help a dry, humorless laugh. “I do not think so,” she says hoarsely. 

Gaze narrowing, Akil nods to his assistant. “Do not underestimate me. I have learned from the best.” 

She shuts her eyes, expecting the slap to her face. Instead, it is a kick to the ribs, and she cries out at the sharp, searing pain; he is wearing heavy boots. 

*

They are inconsistent in their timing, a classic technique. Sometimes, they will hang black sheets over the tiny square window while she sleeps, and she wakes up in darkness, without any way to tell the time of day. 

It is professional and well planned, and she wants it to end.

However many hours or days later, her left eye has swollen shut, and she knows she has at least one broken rib. They have let her have water and food, but she can barely swallow, her throat is so raw. They record her as they break her right thumb and index finger, asking about the team. She cannot help her screams, as much as she’d like to. 

“Who is Gibbs?”

She thinks of Gibbs at a crime scene, his careful, methodical approach; his rare, bright grin at something ridiculous Tony or McGee say or do; his fierce protectiveness towards her at any sign of danger. She smiles faintly, but says nothing.

Akil waves photos in front of her and the camcorder; they are of three summers ago, when Tony was in charge of the team and lost without Gibbs, and when the only thing she had in America to hold onto was his friendship. It was harmless on the surface; he would come over for dinner, they would watch movies, and that was that. But she knew that’s when she began to think of him as something more than a partner, when she began to love him.

Again, neither here nor there.

Only Mossad has those photos; she makes a mental note in a separate part of her mind to mention a mole to her father. Not that she will see him again, or that she wants to, at this point.

“Tell me of DiNozzo.”

It is when she doesn’t answer this question that they break her thumb. “You do not think it will upset him to see this?” Akil asks as tears cut a path through the grime and blood on her face. “To see you suffer because of him?”

She thinks of Tony in his Hawaiian shirts in LA, of the pictures he posted of her on his ship. She remembers the sound of him during sleep, the smile he’d give her when she came into work in the mornings. Flashes of half-pepperoni, half-vegetable pizza in her living room and his tortured face in Tel Aviv flood her mind. 

An ache blossoms deep inside, more painful then the disgusting crack of her bones; she says nothing. They punch her, and she groans; her nose begins to bleed.

“It is not because of him,” she gasps finally, her voice stuffed, as if she has a cold. 

“But it will upset him,” Akil murmurs. “And your stubbornness is responsible for that.”

She does not speak; that is when they pick up the chains once more, and begin to whip her legs and ribs. 

After the tape is made, they leave. She passes out from the pain, head lolling to one side.

*

It’s been days now. It has to have been days. Ziva knows she is alone out here. She wonders who they sent the tape to.

Now, even Akil is beginning to show his frustration. “I had not wanted to resort to all this, Ziva,” he murmurs into her ear. A blood-stained hammer sits harmlessly in the corner. “I just want the passwords to your accounts at NCIS. That’s all.”

In response, her head slumps forward, chin to chest. A hand tangles in her blood-matted hair and pulls; she groans faintly, right eye open to meet his gaze. “They are not worth your loyalty,” he says soothingly. “Or else they would not have left you behind.”

She sucks her split bottom lip into her mouth, shutting her eye. She has nothing to say, because he has touched nothing within her. The compartments in her mind are iron-clad, thanks to her Mossad training. She has never revealed information under duress, she isn’t about to start now. 

Sunlight beats down on her; they’ve changed the orientation of her chair, to have the sun right on her face. Akil takes a deep breath next to her, his breath hot on her sweaty cheek.

“Tell me the passwords, Ziva.”

She shakes her head. 

Grubby fingers land on her hand; her already-broken thumb is twisted back, and she screams from the pain, tears welling in her eyes. “Do not make us break all your fingers,” Akil says softly. 

“Do it,” she croaks back at him. “I will not give you what you want.”

Her ribs protest with every breath; she can hear an almost-sad sigh from above. “You want me to kill you. I know this. We will not oblige.”

They leave her alone once more. It must be early-afternoon; the sun blinds her, roasts her through the bars of her cell. 

She likes to think this would not have happened with Gibbs, Tony, and McGee at her side. They always had her six, just as she had theirs. They would never leave her behind; Mossad is trained to do so, for the sanctity of the mission. 

Her father would shake his head and ask _what have they done to you?_

He would mean to the agent he trained from birth; she knows what she would say in return: 

_They have made me something more._

When Akil and his associate next enter, the room is purple-orange with an African sunset. They are both scattered and skittish, and instead of the usual taunting and abuse, they pick up the chair and carry her out of the cell into the dusty hall without preamble. She can hear heavy footsteps in the floors above and below as they jostle her down the hall, and she cries out at the sharp pains in her ribs. 

Akil speaks hurriedly in Arabic; her mind is too fuzzy with pain to follow, but she can hear English through the slats of the floor. Boots pound up the stairs, and they drop her, chair and all, to the floor; she lands on her good side, at least saving her more damage to her hand, but she cannot help a moan as her whole body rattles from impact, eye open. 

Akil points her own gun at her; he looks almost sad. “I am sorry, Ziva. Ask Ari to forgive me for this,” he says in his coffee-dark voice, releasing the safety. She can see her blood spattered on his torn clothes.

Shivering, she shuts her eye, waits for the kill shot. It is a relief. She will see Tali once more. 

Gunfire explodes around her; a body drops next to her. She hears English, hears her name; someone tries to untie her hands, and she shatters at the touch on her broken fingers, moaning brokenly. 

She’s carried out by two men; her head lolls to one’s shoulder, and as she passes out, she inhales a familiar, sweaty scent that she cannot place just yet.

*

“Ziva. Ziva?”

Her good eye flutters open to white, stark light; she moans faintly, shutting it once more. There are bandages over the left side of her face; her right arm is lifted into a sling, the fingers immovable. 

“She awake, Boss?”

“How many more times are you going to ask me that, McGee?”

A pause, then: “None, Boss.”

Breathing in as deeply as she can, she opens her eye once more, blinking rapidly. White surrounds her; the comforting beeps of a heart monitor fill her ears. Her lips are cracked and dry, and she blinks a few more times, the fuzzy outline of a face coming into view. 

Gibbs looks down at her, his face a mess of lines, weariness sketched into every one. His hair seems greyer than she remembered. She tries to lift her head, and he sets a gentle hand on her forehead, halting her. 

“Don’t move yet, Ziver,” he says quietly. “You’re not that quick of a healer.”

McGee’s head pokes over Gibbs’ shoulder; she can’t help the small smile that strains her mouth. “Good to see you, Ziva,” he says with a little wave. He then murmurs something to Gibbs, who nods, and then disappears out of her line of sight. 

Gibbs remains, sitting at her side and laying a gentle hand on her hair. “Go back to sleep, all right? You need it,” he says, just as she imagines a real father would; his voice is warm and comforting, and she shuts her eye and allows herself to relax for the first time in weeks. 

When she awakes next, it’s dark in her room but for the greenish lights from her monitors. Eye open, she finds it easier to breathe, and her mouth doesn’t feel like the Negev. She sees a man curled up in the corner, ill-fitting into the tiny hospital chair; the sling across his shoulder is obvious. An ache that has nothing to do with her injuries settles in her bones, and she closes her eye again. 

*

McGee later tells her she’s in Bahrain, on the U.S. Naval Base. Gibbs says she’s coming back to Washington as soon as she’s stable enough for travel, which should be in a couple of days. She’s had surgery on her face due to fractures in her left temporal bone, from the hits she took, has three broken ribs, a minor concussion, and will never fully regain the movement in her right thumb, though she should be at 80 percent motility. She had been in captivity for about two weeks and in the hospital for two days before regaining consciousness. 

Those answers, though important, are not the ones she is looking for.

“Where is Tony?” she asks after two days of seeing just McGee and Gibbs, except for that time in the middle of the night. 

McGee is on shift; he drums his fingers on his knees, face pale. “He’s here. Somewhere,” he says vaguely.

“Conning some pretty nurse into giving him jello,” she says flatly.

McGee immediately flushes pink. “No, of course not. He—Christ, he just—he sits with you when you’re asleep,” he stammers. “He’s afraid you’ll be too upset if he’s here when you’re awake.”

She looks away; the bandages on her face have finally come off, and she can see from her left eye for the first time in what feels like weeks. “I appreciate his concern,” she said haltingly, voice still raw. “But tell him he may visit if he would like.”

Face brightening, McGee leans forward in his chair. “You forgive him?”

She sighs silently. “No.” 

His shoulders sag, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “But I am obviously in no condition to kill him yet. So he will survive an encounter with me.”

It is a joke, albeit a lame one, and she smiles slightly as she speaks, looking at him; McGee is taken aback for a moment before he laughs, and it’s one of the best sounds she’s ever heard. “ _Yet_ being the operative word,” he adds after a moment. 

Nodding, she settles back into the pillows. The comforting echo of McGee’s laughter remains in the room long after his shift is over. 

That night, she makes a conscious effort to wake up. As McGee had said, Tony sits next to her bed like a gargoyle, back hunched in the unforgiving plastic chair. She wants to reach out and touch him, to assure herself he’s real, but her injuries make it impossible. 

“Tony,” she murmurs softly, licking her cracked lips.

He is up immediately, eyes wide and bright in the dim room. “You need something? Water?” he asks, getting up from the chair. She can see the wince on his face, the worry and guilt in his gaze, and she doesn’t know what to say.

“They had the photos,” she says finally. “The ones from three years ago.”

The muscles in his neck are tight as he swallows visibly. “I know,” he says, voice strained. “They sent us the tape.”

She looks down at her blankets for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek. “Only Mossad had those,” she says thinly after a moment. 

“So there’s a mole,” he finishes for her, and she’s never been so grateful for his uncanny way of knowing her thoughts than right now. “I’ll relay the message.”

She didn’t mean for this to be business—she wants to _talk_ , to say something meaningful, but she isn’t sure she has the capacity for it, especially with Tony. As happy as she is to see him, he still killed Michael, and she still doesn’t understand _why_. 

He moves to leave, and she looks up, squeezing her good hand into a frustrated fist. “I do not know what to say,” she says faintly, her heart tight in her chest. 

Turning back around, he looks at her carefully. “Neither do I. But I like to think we’ll get back there,” he says quietly, shooting her one of his patented smirks. It makes her feel better, for all its half-heartedness. 

She breathes in deeply, ribs aching. “I cannot forgive you,” she says, voice thick.

Tony looks away for a moment, and then meets her gaze, eyes fierce. “I get that,” he says evenly. “But you will.”

There is silence but for their respective breathing between them, but she doesn’t look away from him, nor he from her. His skin lays tighter against the bones of his face, as if he has lost weight, and there are new lines around his eyes; it’s because of her, she realizes, and her heart aches all the more for it.

“I’ll be right back,” he says finally, voice soft. “You want anything?”

She shakes her head. “I am fine, thank you.”

He smiles faintly once more. “ _Laila tov_ , Ziva” he says quietly before stepping out of her room. 

Tears burn behind her eyes; she turns her face to the pillow and lets the fabric dampen under her skin.

*

When they leave the hospital for the airstrip, Gibbs forces Tony into the backseat of the SUV with her; her face burns red as he mumbles a hello. It’s the first time she’s seen him in the daylight, and he _does_ look as if he’s lost weight; she makes a note to buy him a pizza laden with meat when they return to the U.S.

“You two better stop acting like teenagers, or I’ll drop you both in the middle of the Atlantic,” Gibbs mutters from in front. McGee stifles a chuckle as he slides in next to Tony. 

In response, Tony kicks him in the ankle. “Wanna say something, McGiggles?” 

McGee sobers, at least in the mouth. “Nope,” he says solemnly, catching Ziva’s gaze in the rearview; his eyes twinkle, and she smiles back over Tony’s head. 

The car is warm and breezy; they roll all the windows down. She shuts her eyes and sucks in the fresh air, letting her hair fly out behind her. She can hear McGee chatting with their driver, who is a Navy lieutenant; Gibbs, of course, is quiet. Her left arm rests heavily against her ribs in the splint. 

Getting on the plane is a trial; McGee helps her limp to the jet, and then he and Tony carry her up the steps in the chair position. It is humbling, to be so reliant on these men, but they are gentle and say nothing, which she appreciates. She settles into a plush seat next to Gibbs, and stretches out her legs onto the seat opposite. McGee and Tony are across the aisle, doing a very bad job of pretending to not be watching her like hawks. 

“Private jet?” she asks Gibbs after they take off. 

He nods, handing her a bottle of water and two pills. “Director let us borrow it. Safer for you than a cargo plane.”

She dutifully swallows the pills, setting the bottle down. “You could not have known you would find me alive,” she says, settling back into her seat.

Gibbs shoots her a look, adjusting the pillow behind her neck. “My gut’s never wrong,” he says evenly.

The painkillers are kicking in; she feels drowsy, light as a feather. “They wanted to know about NCIS,” she says quietly.

His gaze darkens. “We watched the tape,” he says grimly.

She keeps her gaze on him. “I do not know why they thought I would be useful,” she says.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it, Ziva,” he says, unfolding a blanket and tucking it over her. “We’ve got it under control.”

All she wants to do is sleep, but the weight on her chest is too much to bear. “I am sorry I made you choose,” she murmurs. 

His hand rests gently on the crown of her head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re back with family now,” he says warmly. “Get some rest.”

It isn’t everything she wants to say, but it’s enough; she shuts her eyes and sleeps for most of the flight.

*

In the end, she is in Bethesda Naval Hospital for another five days after her arrival back in the U.S. By the time she is released, she’s nearly crawling up the walls in frustration. Her hand will be in a cast for another four weeks, and her body still aches, but her vision is back to nearly normal, and she doesn’t want to spend another night enclosed by white walls and the mechanical beeping of artificial life.

Everyone has made their rounds in visiting her; Tony still only comes at night, but she isn’t ready to have those conversations with him yet. Abby was there everyday, as well as Ducky, and she’d nearly cried when seeing them again. Their presences just served to remind her of how changed she was from the old Ziva of years ago; she still hates herself for not saying proper goodbyes. 

Seeing as how she hasn’t got an apartment in DC, she decides to stay with Gibbs in his lonely, huge house. Or, Gibbs tells her she will be staying with him until they find her a new apartment, and she has little choice but to agree. She doesn’t mind; Gibbs will let her be, and she can fully recover in a familiar place. 

The first few days, she rests alone, as Gibbs apparently told everyone he wasn’t going to have his house overrun with people; she’s in a guest room on the second floor, and it’s the first time she’s seen anything but Gibbs’ basement or living room. He’s a sparse decorator, which isn’t surprising, but what is a little unnerving are the specific items found in her room and bathroom, like her shampoo and body wash, and a set of clothes she did not remember purchasing. 

When she asks Gibbs, he merely says that Abby took care of it; she notes to get her an amazing present for her birthday this year.

The fourth night, she finds Gibbs in his basement, working on the skeleton of a boat. She cannot tell whether it is the same one that she has seen before or not, but it doesn’t matter. The movement is soothing; the end product is unimportant. 

“May I join you?” she asks from the bottom of the rickety stairs. 

Gibbs doesn’t look up from the sanding, but he nods. She crosses slowly to the stool by the workbench, easing herself onto the seat. The bruises on her legs from the chains have faded, but the ache remains.

“Feeling all right?” he asks as he turns and pours her three fingers of bourbon in a clean Mason jar. 

She takes the drink and sips. “I am, thank you. You have not been around.”

“We had a case. Marine murdered in Norfolk,” he says, dragging his extra stool over and sitting down next to her. 

“All resolved?” she asks, itching for details, for something to rattle around in her brain other than memories of her roasting cell, the white hospital rooms, the look on Tony’s face as she opened her apartment door to find Michael bleeding and Tony bruised. 

Gibbs nods again. “Wife did it in a fit of rage; he was cheating on her. She tried to run, but we got her.”

Ziva swallows down her bourbon, looking off through the arches of the boat. “I finally understand that kind of anger,” she says softly after a while. “The betrayal of trust.”

He pours himself bourbon into his habitual ceramic mug. “Tony didn’t go to your place to hunt Rivkin down,” he says after a long, quiet pause. 

“I know. But he did not have to kill him,” she says tightly. 

“Maybe. But we have no idea what happened in that apartment, except for what Tony said,” he replies evenly. “And you were there in that interrogation room in Tel Aviv. Tony held his own with your father. If there’d been a reason to doubt him, we would have seen it.”

She sits silently, feeling the heat rise on her neck. Liquid splashes into her empty jar, and she picks it up without looking, sipping again. “I do want to believe him,” she says faintly. “But it does not make sense.”

“Because it means another man you know would have betrayed you,” he says; his fingers curl for a moment around her good hand, squeezing just as he had after Ari. 

Ari. Her father. Michael. The men she had been closest to, before coming to NCIS. All of whom used her for a devious purpose. 

“I do not know what to say to Tony,” she says finally, voice cracking. 

At that, Gibbs half-laughs, but not unkindly. “Why do you think I hit him all the time? Words don’t work all that well with him.”

She smiles, finally looking at Gibbs. He has his eyes on the boat, a slight upward curve to his mouth. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ziver,” he says gently. “I think you’ll figure it out.”

Sighing, she finishes her bourbon. “I want to come back to work, Gibbs,” she says abruptly. 

He smiles, glancing at her. “Wasn’t going to let you quit again. When you’re cleared for work, you’ve got your job. Don’t worry.”

The iron grips on her chest loosen just enough for a deep breath; she stands and looks over the boat. “It looks like it is coming along.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says.

She has the distinct feeling he is not talking about the boat.

The next morning, she goes downstairs to make coffee and finds a thick manila folder on the counter next to her usual mug. It is the incident report from Michael’s death and her apartment’s subsequent explosion. It takes her two hours before she is ready to open it, but she knows she needs to.

An hour later, she enters the NCIS headquarters for the first time in what feels like forever. The taxi costs more than she’d like, but this is more important. Tony’s incident report is clutched in her hand. 

When she enters the squad floor, McGee is the only one in their pit, sitting at his desk and typing like a madman. He is so engrossed in the computer, he doesn’t notice her approach.

She slams her good hand on his desk, successfully startling him. “Jesus—Ziva? What are you doing here?” he squawks, jumping out of his chair. 

“Where is Tony?” she asks instead, the file tucked between her side and her splint. 

McGee swallows hard. “The lab, I think. Following up with Abs. Is everything okay?”

Lips pursed, she nods. “Fine. I will see you later,” she says curtly before turning for the elevator. 

Abby’s music is oddly soft as Ziva enters the lab, but she can feel the throbbing bass line in her bones as the doors slide open. Abby and Tony are bowed over a bagged glove, white and stained with blood. 

“Everything is cool, Tony. Open and shut case. Gibbs said so last night,” Abby was saying, her pigtails bobbing along with the beat. “Quit the second guessing. It’s not sexy.”

“Thanks, Abs,” Tony mutters as he straightens. His eyes lock onto hers, and he blanches. 

Abby looks up and squeals. “Ziva! Are you back at work already?” she asks happily, skipping over and hugging her gently. 

Ziva can’t help but be lightened by the show of affection; she hugs back with her good arm, smiling slightly. “Not yet. I need to talk to Tony, though,” she says evenly, gaze still on him.

Glancing between them, Abby nodded. “Gotta go check on something with Ducky, anyway. You two can have the lab,” she said slowly, hesitating before giving Ziva another squeeze. “So happy to have you back,” she said with a wide smile before scurrying out of the lab. 

The doors slide shut without a word. Ziva walks towards him slowly, setting the files down on the bare countertop between them. Tony keeps her gaze, arm still curled protectively in its sling. 

“You chased Abby out of her lab. I think it’s a first,” he says finally, voice light. 

“I read your report,” she says evenly. 

He seems to go pale under his tan, eyes narrowing. “You want to argue about this now?” he asks coolly. 

She flips open the folder and glances down. “You said you got intel about Michael. Is it true?”

“It’s in the report, isn’t it?” 

Stomach turning on itself, she shuts her eyes. “I am almost at the end of my thread, Tony—“

“Rope. At the end of your rope,” he interjects none-too-gently.

Jaw tight, she opens her eyes and looks at him. “I am asking _you_ , Tony, to tell me the truth. Is it true? Did Michael kill these people?”

“The evidence shows it,” he says evenly. “You didn’t believe it.”

“Did Gibbs?” she asks hotly.

“Yes!” he shoots back, slamming his hand down on the counter. “Everyone else did, _except_ you.”

Swallowing hard, she looks back down at the report. “He snapped your arm,” she says quietly. “And choked you. And you pushed him into my coffee table.”

“And then he attacked me again, and I shot him. I’m not making any excuses,” he says wearily. “And yeah, maybe I should have shot him in the thigh, but it was the heat of the fucking moment, Ziva! I wasn’t thinking about how to save him, I was thinking about how to save myself. Gonna blame me for that too?”

Skin hot, she closes her eyes against the pounding in her head, the desire to believe him nearly overwhelming. She shuts the folder and pushes it at him. “Gibbs brought me this. Please make sure it is returned safely,” she says, voice choked. 

“Ziva—“

She turns away and heads towards the doors. “I am sorry to have bothered you—“

His hand, warm and familiar, clasps her good wrist, halting her. “Would you just stop?” he asks faintly, his voice very close to her hair. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, I was trying to do my job. And if he’d done something to you—“

“He would not have hurt me,” she says weakly—but she does not know this. Not anymore.

Fingers light on her radial pulse, he steps in closer to her. “I couldn’t take the chance. But I am sorry,” he says earnestly. 

Licking her lips, she looks up at him. “It will take me a while,” she says thickly. 

He gives her a half-smile. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

“Is that a line from a movie?” she asks suspiciously.

“I’m wounded,” he says, stepping back and pointing at his head. “I’ve got some original thought up here.”

“Most likely a new and horrid way to put meat and pizza together,” she retorts. 

Laughing softly, he shrugs. “Caught me.”

She bites her bottom lip, arm aching. “I should go,” she says softly after a moment. “I am not supposed to be here.”

The hand on her wrist moves to the small of her back. “I’ll drive you back,” he says quietly. “Gibbs’ll never know.”

Nodding, she lets Tony guide her out. The weight in her chest lessens; she feels at least somewhat on her way back to normalcy, whatever that means for her now.

*


End file.
